


Finishing Each Other's Sandwiches

by Untherius



Category: Emberverse - S. M. Stirling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untherius/pseuds/Untherius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how many years pass or how much they've grown up, some things are just far too much fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finishing Each Other's Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenlily/gifts).



Larsdalen  
September 12, CY 10, 2008 AD

Mike Havel Junior held his latest creation, cradling it in both hands. He peered at it. It had taken him a while to make it, though he'd felt a bit rushed toward the end. It was supposed to be a recovery gift for his father. It had also been his first attempt at anything even remotely resembling model-building. That, and his hand-eye coordination was still frustratingly disconnected. But Uncle Eric had assured him that his dad liked things that could fly.

He looked up at his twin sisters. “So?” he said. “Whatcha think?”

Mary and Ritva blinked at it.

“What...” said Mary.

“...is...” said Ritva.

“...it?” the said together.

“It's...” Mike looked back at the wooden assembly in his hands. The single disk, three cylinders, and the bits joining them together only superficially resembled the photograph his uncle had shown him. “...the En'erprise,” he finished.

“What's...” said Mary.

“...that?” said Ritva.

“It flies. Well, Uncle Erik said it flies. An' Dad likes flyin' stuff.”

“But it...” said Mary.

“...doesn't have...” said Ritva.

“...any wings.” they said together.

Mike sighed in exasperation. He'd asked his uncle the very same question and he gave the answer to his sisters. “It flies in space. An' in space, ya don' hafta have wings.”

“But that's silly,” Mary and Ritva said together.

“Why?”

“It's...” said Mary.

“...not...” said Ritva.

“...real,” they said together.

“But...but...but...” He felt himself start to cry. How was it grown-ups seemed to manage not crying over stuff? Sure, they cried when their friends and family died. And sometimes they cried when they were really happy. He couldn't wait to grow up.

“What's the problem?” said his mom's voice behind him.

He turned around and craned his neck up. He thrust his creation out toward her. “Mary an' Ritva don' like it!” he half-wailed.

Mom knelt down. “Oh?” she said. Then she looked past him. “Well?” she asked his sisters.

“We just said...” said Mary.

“...that it's silly...” said Ritva.

“...and it's not real.” they finished together.

“Were you mean about it?”

They shook their heads in unison.

Mom looked at him. He shook his own head.

“Well, your brother did an awful lot of work on it. I'm actually quite impressed. Tell me more.”

“It's for Dad,” he said.

She smiled. “You have great timing. Come on...Mary, Ritva, you too.”

Mom reached for one of his hands, but somehow thought better of it. Instead, she walked slowly behind them as they made their way toward the house.

* * *

Mike Havel Senior hobbled into what had once been the sun-room of the Larssons' vacation home in the Eola Hills. The space had been occasionally used as the Bearkiller War Room. A smudge-pot made out of a salvaged Japanese hibachi smoldered in the corner, adding heat to the spring sunlight that made the room “nice and cozy,” as several people had put it.

Both Aaron and Pamela had insisted that he spend most of his waking hours in there while he healed. He'd been told it had been touch-and-go there for a while. The jury was still out on whether or not he'd turn out to have permanent pancreatic damage, which would probably turn him diabetic.

The first Change year, and for several thereafter, that would have been a death sentence and a very unpleasant one at that. He privately wondered if it would have been better if the wounds he'd sustained at the hand of Norman Arminger had actually been fatal. At least he wouldn't have had to endure being bed-ridden for a whole week.

On the other hand, he supposed it helped him relate to everyone who'd been injured in battle, and especially those who'd been crippled for life because of it. Ordering people to their deaths had never been pleasant. Leading from the rear had never been his style and, well, the dice had no memory. Maybe it also would have been more poetic if he'd died on the field. He would have died with his boots on and doing something that truly mattered, a good death for a man who'd done good work.

He looked over his shoulder as the front door opened, and his son Mike Jr. pattered into the house, followed by the twins, with Signe on their heels. He smiled. At the very least, he had a little more time with his wife and children. Which had been something of a luxury for so many over the last decade. So, yeah, maybe he really didn't have room to complain.

“I'm told you're finally up,” said Signe, “so we came to see how you're doing.” They exchanged a kiss.

“Good enough, I guess. Kind of hurts, though.”

“What does?”

Mike snorted. “Everything. But I guess that's a sign I'm still alive.”

Signe's smiled turned strained. He remembered her being terrified for him right after his fight with Arminger. She hadn't shown it much, at least not then and there. She was too strong--and stubborn--for that. But afterward? He'd heard her crying from time to time as he'd drifted in and out of consciousness.

“Your son has something for you,” Signe continued.

Mike turned to the boy. “You do?”

Mike Junior thrust the thing forward. It was almost as big as he was. Mike took it in his hands and lifted it up, turning it this way and that. It was at the same time as ugly as sin and one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. He was biased, of course, but he could also tell the boy had spent countless hours patiently gluing popsicle sticks together.

There had to be hundreds of them. He made a mental note to ask Signe where she'd found so many. But it was obvious that his son had come up with a gift idea and that Eric had not-so-subtly nudged him toward a specific implementation, one Mike recognized instantly.

It was lopsided, wildly asymmetrical, out of scale, and looked like it might come apart at the seams if he so much as sneezed on it. But his son had quite clearly built the starship Enterprise out of popsicle sticks. That he'd done all that just from looking at whatever photographs Eric had shown him was actually quite impressive. If the Change had never happened, the boy might have had a future in 3D computer graphics. On the other hand, Mike would probably never have married Signe and Mike Junior wouldn't have existed.

One hell of a trade-off, he thought.

Mike shot his son a lop-sided grin. “It's the Enterprise!” he said. Surprisingly, he didn't have to inject any fake delight.

A grin, a much smaller mirror image of his own, nearly split the boy's head in two. He twisted around to face his sisters. “Told ya!” he said triumphantly.

“It's still...” said Mary.

“...not...” said Ritva.

“...real.” they said together.

“Girls,” said Mike, “it's real enough, okay?” Then, more gently, “Your brother put a lot of effort into this. I did some of this when I was a kid and it's really hard. Whether or not the object it represents is real doesn't matter. The effort he put into it is real and that's what matters. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa,” they said in unison.

Mike turned toward the central table, then stopped and frowned. There was no way his son's model was going to sit up on its own. He wasn't even sure it wouldn't break if leaned against one of the nacelles. How in the world had he built it anyway? At the moment, there really was just one option. He carefully turned it upside down and laid it gently on the table, the saucer and both nacelles equally distributing the weight.

He turned back to Junior, whose expression had turned pained. “Do you understand why I did that?” he asked the boy.

He shook his head.

“Two reasons. One, that's the most stable way to support it. I'll see about finding some string to hang it from the ceiling later.” He let a brief flash of more childhood memories wash through his mind. “Second,” he continued, “did you uncle explain how there's no up or down in space?”

Junior shook his head.

“Well, trust me, there isn't. I'll go over it some more later.” He paused. “Hey, maybe later this afternoon, you can show me how you built that without it collapsing, okay?”

The boy beamed. It did Mike's heart good. Besides, he added to himself, I could use some father-son bonding time and there's no way in hell Aaron or Pamela—or, hell, Signe for that matter—are going to clear me for anything more than a leisurely stroll to the pond and back anytime soon.

Then, “Have you finished your chores?”

Junior shook his head.

“Go do that, then we'll do this, okay?”

Junior spun around and trotted out of the room.

“And have your aunt Luanne supervise you, okay?” he called after.

“'kay!” came the reply, then the door opening and closing.

Mike chuckled, then grunted. “Damn, even laughing hurts.”

“You're lucky to be alive,” said Signe.

“So you all keep telling me.” He grunted again. “Feels like it, too.”

“Papa?” said Mary...or was it Ritva?

“We're sorry...”

“...you're not...”

“...feeling...”

“...well.”

“Can...”

“...we...”

“...help?” they finished in unison.

Mike blinked. “Just be your adorable selves, help your mother, and don't jump all over me for a while.”

“Okay,” they said glumly.

“Uh...why are you talking like that, anyway?”

“We're...

“...finishing...”

“...each...”

“...other's...”

“...sammiches!” they finished together.

“I see,” he said, though he didn't. He put an arm out and they rushed up to him, the one in perfect step with the other, and hugged him.

“We love you, Papa!” they said together.

“I love you both, too,” he said, giving each of them a kiss on the head. “Now go help your brother, okay?”

They nodded together, spun on their heels, and trotted out.

Mike gazed after them.

Signe pressed a palm to her forehead and groaned. “Oh, gods,” she said, “I've given birth to the Norns.”

“Just how long have they been doing that?”

“They were doing it when we returned from that damned battle,” she said.

“It's...eerie. Almost like, and this is going to sound crazy, but like they're the same person, but in two bodies.”

Mike could have sworn he saw his wife shudder.

“Oh, gods, I hope not.”

“You think that's possible?”

“After the Change? Mike, I know you're a down-to-Earth, if-you-can't-touch-it-it-doesn't-exist kind of guy. It's one of the things I love about you. But sometimes I wonder if Dad's alien space bats theory isn't entirely correct. I mean, what if it wasn't aliens who did this to us? What if some of Juney's hocum, as you put it, is right and there really are supernatural beings messing with us?”

Mike groaned. “Now my head's starting to hurt.” Then added, “Along with the rest of me.”

* * *

Mary shot her sister a mirrored look. Both girls smirked. “That was so much fun!” she gushed.

“You think we broke Mama?” Ritva asked.

Mary shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Let's do it to Uncle Erik!” Ritva squealed.

“And Aunt Luanne!” Mary added, and both broke out in uncontrolled giggles.

* * *

Larsdalen  
September 19, CY 25, 2023 AD

Mary Vogeler swayed gently as she nudged her horse toward her childhood home. She glanced at the ancient road sign high atop its steel pole, dull green with the words “ZENA RD” streaked with rust, and smiled. Had it only been three years since they'd left on Rudi's quest?

“Feels longer, doesn't it?” said Ritva.

Mary chuckled softly. Her sister always did seem to be able to read her mind. “Yeah,” she said absently. Then she grinned. “Hey, remember that thing we did to Mom and Dad the week after Dad killed the Protector?”

Ritva giggled. “Finishing...”

“...each other's...” said Mary.

“...sandwiches!” they finished together, laughing as they did.

Ingolf chuckled. “Sometimes,” he said, “you two worry me. Just a little.”

Mary grinned at her husband, then winked.

The Eola Hills rose gently before them as they rode single-file along the gravel shoulder, then across the cracked asphalt to the smaller gravel road that led toward the main gate.

“Does it look strange?” Ritva asked.

“Well...a little flat, I guess,” said Mary.

Her sister rarely asked her such questions anymore and, quite frankly, her husband seemed afraid to ask. Or perhaps it was because they'd been over it before. Having to adapt to monocular vision had been, without a doubt, the single toughest experience of her life. More than having her eye put out in the first place. More than slogging across the continent and back. More than giving birth to twins.

They'd all been through multiple exquisite forms of hell since leaving the Willamette Valley. Had they known what awaited them, would they still have gone? Would Mary herself have stayed behind if she'd known it would have cost her an eye? She'd asked herself that question many times. But a glance at her husband and their two babies Malfind and Morfind always told her that, yes, it had been worth it.

They spread out, riding three abreast, their pack llamas trailing them. Little had changed.

Fields of wheat still filled the valley, its golden stubble bright in the midday sun. The vineyard on the other side of Zena Rd. still stood. Black, velvety pods of broad-leaved lupine and the brown seeds of cow-parsnip still grew along the creek. White wild carrot and orange California poppy, and purple miniature lupine still peppered the verges of the road. Dark puple serviceberry, powder-blue elderberry, black-fruited cascara, denim-blue Oregon grape, dark red bitter-cherry, red-berried hawthorn, and orange-berried madrone stood out against the Douglas fir and yellowing big-leaf maples.

Mary nudged her horse a few steps off the road and plucked at the edible fruits. She popped them into her mouth as she rode, letting the flavors of each fill her senses. The strong tartness of Oregon grape, cascara's mild sweetness and slightly grainy texture, the interplay between sweet and sour blue elderberry. She'd almost forgotten what it all tasted like. She smiled to herself as her husband made pensive noises behind her as he sampled the native fruits himself.

“Halt!” called the guard at the gate. “Who goes there?”

Yes, even that hadn't changed, and it reminded Mary that the Church Universal and Triumphant continued to be a thorn in everyone's collective backsides.

“Ritva Havel,” said Ritva.

“And Ingolf and Mary Vogeler,” said Mary.

The man before them blinked, then twisted around to shout over his shoulder. “Lord Bear! I think you should come out here!”

Footsteps echoed inside what amounted to a tunnel through the Larsdalen wall. Soon a familiar figure trotted into the summer sunlight. “Yeah?” he asked. “What is...” He stopped as his gaze settled on the travelers. “Sis!” he exclaimed.

“Mike!” Mary and Ritva exclaimed together.

Then something dawned on her. “Dad?” she asked.

Her brother waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, he's fine. More or less. Gettin' old, though. And some of those old injuries from Arminger are bothering him again. Mom's a little worried.” He cocked his head. “What's with the eye patch?” Then, “Ah, no way.”

Mary nodded. “Hurt like hell,” she said.

“I bet." He grinned. "I guess we can tell you apart now, eh?"

Ritva give him the raspberry.

He laughed. "Get down here and greet your brother properly, why don't you.”

Mary dismounted with the ease afforded by years of practice, keeping one hand on the saddle horn while the other held her daughter. Ritva and Ingolf did likewise.

Mike gave both his sisters firm hugs, which was a bit awkward, what with Morfind in the way. Mary introduced Ingolf and Malfind. Mike seemed delighted.

They led their horses through the gate, their brother falling into step beside them. “So,” he said, as they walked slowly up the drive toward the Larsson-Havel house, “tell me all about it. I mean, we got a few letters, but, uh, I'm pretty sure we missed a few more.”

“Where...” said Mary.

“...should we...” said Ritva.

“...begin?” they said together.

“Aw, not this again,” said Mike.

Mary and Ritva both laughed. “What?” they said together.

“Finishing each other's sandwiches again, huh?”

“Always,” said Mary and Ritva together, “always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mike Havel's death scene at the end of "A Meeting at Corvallis" made me cry. I understand why the author did that...I think. It still made me sad. But if his injuries at the hand of Norman Arminger hadn't been fatal, and if he'd lived, that has potential ramifications for the unfolding of events between that and the opening of "The Sunrise Lands." Still, I think there's room for Rudi et al to undertake the Quest.
> 
> Snacking on native Northwest fruits is one of my favorite things to do when out and about on the trail.
> 
> Admittedly, I pushed things a little with regard to the ripening of certain fruits. Madrone and hawthorn, in particular, don't generally redden up much until the first frosts, which don't usually occur in the Willamette Valley until well into October.
> 
> As of this writing, I'm maybe a quarter of the way through "High King of Montival." So I apologize for missing details covered in the remainder of that book during the Fellowship's journey from the land of the Bjornings back to Montival. Rest assured, it'll probably bug me later. :-)


End file.
